


Dooms of Feel

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, Ficlets tagged individually for more explicit content, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fic prompts from Tumblr that run the gamut from tragic to humorous to smutty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maedhros, Hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I know I already have a series very similarly titled "Through dooms of love" - yeah, they come from the same ee cummings poem. I couldn't help it.

Maedhros stared at the dark horizon as the last shade of their father streamed away, so many ashes on the wind. Behind him he heard a twisted gasp of anguish, and knew without looking that Curufin had sunk to his knees, digging his fingers into the bony soil.

His own knees ached from the rocks where he’d been kneeling, where just minutes ago he’d been holding his father’s body as Fëanor choked for breath and whispered his last words.

_What do you do when your guiding light has been snuffed out?_

Rekindle the flame.

_What do you do when your last hope has fled?_

The impossible.

Kneeling, he was simply an eldest son, lost and broken. Rising, he was their king, wild and hopeless, but not yet defeated.

“What now, Maitimo?” whispered Maglor.

“The impossible,” he said, and turned his face to the North.


	2. Argon, Jealous

Across the ice, his brother was a beacon. 

Fingon’s very presence was warmth, his voice a light in the darkness, his strength a pillar. 

_How beloved is your brother._  

They spoke of Turgon in hushed whispers, eyes flickering down in respect as he passed, a burning figure of grief and power. 

_How he keeps going, after such grief! How like his grandfather he looks…The bearing of a king._  

Aredhel was white teeth clenched in the face of the driving snow; Aredhel was pure courage as she strung lines to sheer glacial clefts and roped herself to the grinding ice. 

_Had she been a man, she would overshadow even her valiant brothers. Our white lady!_

Argon, the youngest, the least of them, bent his head against the wind. 

_I shall not fade in their shadows! My name shall be as honored as theirs._

When the new moon rose, so too did his determination. 

When the first battle in the new lands came, he was at the forefront. 

And when he fell, he was forgotten. 


	3. Fingolfin, Embarassed

Nolofinwë buried his face in his hands. “But why were you even there, Irimë?” 

His sister shrugged, unapologetic. “You know I’m always scouting for new climbing spots.” 

“This is the  _third time_  this has happened.”

“Come, you can hardly blame this on me. You need to get better at choosing your spots.” 

“It was an entirely abandoned cave when we got there!” 

“ _Luckily_. I’ve seen panther scat in that area; you should be glad it was only me who dropped on you from above!” 

Nolofinwë groaned and slumped down, ears still burning. 

Irimë tugged his braid playfully. “Don’t worry, big brother, once she gets over her embarrassment – um, and locates her drawers – Anairë will still go out walking with you. Probably.” 

“I’m never forgiving you,” said Nolofinwë, determinedly. “Have you found my trousers yet?” 

“…I think they went over the cliff. You shouldn’t have sprung up so quickly! I imagine it quite alarmed your lady love.” 

“I’ll show you  _alarmed…_ ” 

Irimë leapt up and took to her heels, her brother in swift pursuit. “Careful! Mind the brambles…Oof, that’s  _got_  to sting.”


	4. Aredhel/Elenwë, Aroused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I really ran with the ‘aroused’ prompt. NSFW, and my apologies to Turgon.

Irissë curled her fingers into Elenwë’s hair, her head falling back against the wall. 

_“Oh_. Elenwë…” 

“Shh,” murmured Elenwë, kneeling before her, fingers and tongue busy between Irissë’s legs. 

Irissë groaned and closed her eyes, already overheated in her long festival skirts and feeling the sweat roll down her inner thighs. 

“Hurry,” she whispered. “They’ll be looking for you.” 

“Mmm,” said Elenwë, and did something with her tongue that made lights pop behind Irissë’s eyelids. “Stop talking so much.” 

“I’m serious,” said Irissë, gasping a little as Elenwë twisted a finger inside her. “They’re going to want the bride-to-be present at the engagement announcement, don’t you think?” 

“The bride-to-be needs to make you come first,” said Elenwë, and licked the sweat from Aredhel’s thigh.   


	5. Celegorm, Amused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Allusions to bondage.

Curufin grimaced and bit back a curse as Celegorm rubbed salve onto his raw, burned wrists. Celegorm couldn’t hold back his grin, even though his hands were gentle. 

“Brother, I have warned you about these things. Letting yourself be bound by an amateur? A beginner’s mistake.” 

“Shut up,” growled Curufin, flexing his fingers and wincing again. 

“Trust an Arafinwion to be terrible with knots. And does he truly not keep any salve in his quarters? That seems like a terrible idea, for a multitude of reasons…” 

“Will you please just shut up?” 

“If you lost all circulation in your hands, I shudder to think of how other areas fared…” 

“ _Tyelko.”_ Curufin looked furious for a moment and then sighed. “…it wasn’t the circulation so much as the candlewax burns.”

Celegorm lost his battle with composure and roared with laughter. “Next time you plan a romp with our fair cousin, tell me ahead of time and I’ll give him a good grounding in the basics first.  _Candlewax._ Honestly _…_ ”


	6. Beruthiel/Lalwen, Greedy

The cat leapt onto the bed and found itself immediately rebuffed by a hand shoving it back down. Irritated, it paced the perimeter of the royal bed before trying again. This time it landed successfully on something soft and warm, and was greeted by an “Oof!” The same strong hand as before reached out, grabbed it by the scruff and tossed it across the room. 

“Mind how you treat my servants, elf,” said a voice, tartly, and there was a low laugh in response. 

“Your ‘servants’ keep intruding on areas that are currently my purview, my queen. Unless you’d prefer their affections to mine?” 

“Don’t be so impertinent,” said Berúthiel, before breaking off with a low sigh. “ _Oh_. Right there.” 

“Impertinent?” There was amusement in Lalwen’s voice. “Not impertinent, your majesty, just greedy. When I’m in bed with you I don’t like to share…”


	7. Galadriel, Vicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel at Alqualondë.

The bodies of her childhood friends lie in the surf, curled into scarlet sand. The eyes of her mother’s kin watch her sightlessly; children wail; the wharves burn. 

Artanis wants to weep, to keen, to raise her voice in lament, but something more powerful than grief blazes bright within her and burns her tears dry: rage. 

And so she hikes up her skirts and knots them at her waist, picks up a sword from one of the fallen, the hilt foreign but reassuring in her hand, and plunges into the fray. Somewhere along the way she has lost one of her light boots, and so she kicks the other off as well and wades barefoot into battle, blood painting her calves. 

A movement behind her and she whirls, locking blades with a dark-haired elf whose silver eyes shine hatred at her in the brief moment before they light with recognition. 

It is her cousin, Curufinwë. 

They both pause a moment, wordless, and then her rage overtakes her and she slashes viciously at him. He takes a step back, blocking her, his face twisting into a snarl. He is more adept with a blade than she, has had more time to grown accustomed to one, and has more muscle, more weight to put behind his blows. But she is taller than him, and swifter, and her anger gives her strength. She beats him back again and again, and at last succeeds in wrenching the sword from his hand.

Artanis brings her weapon down to slash across his face, but pulls her swing at just the last moment so that instead of slicing into his skull, it merely carves a deep gash along his cheek. He staggers back, hand rising to his face. 

“Never forget,” she snarls, as the wind lifts her hair and the screams rise in pitch behind her, “never forget who gave that scar to you. Oh, yes – it will scar,  _I promise you_. Now flee back to your pack,  _dog._ ” 

She does not forgive. She does not forget. But she is not a killer; not yet. 


	8. Lalwen, Distracted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I had this idea of Finwë asking Fëanor to tutor his young half-siblings in writing in tengwar… I have no idea if this is timeline compliant given the ages (probably not) but what the hell, it gives me squirmy schoolchild Lalwen, so…

Irimë scratched her ear and stuck the end of the quill in her mouth. “Um.” She shot a longing look at the window – outside, it was bright and beautiful and the sky was blue, a light wind murmuring temptingly against the trees. 

Across the table from her came a sigh. “I should have known better than to think a child of Indis could focus for even an hour on such things,” said Fëanaro, his voice tinged with impatience. “Does a fair day render you incapable of giving your attention to your lessons?” 

Irimë scowled up at her tall half-brother. “No.” 

“Well, then…” 

Irimë tried to draw her attention back to the parchment before her, but from outside came the bark of a dog and the laughter of children. She craned her neck, curious. Was there a game afoot? 

Across the table, the impatient  _tap tap tap_  of long fingers, those irritated grey eyes… 

“Fine,” said Fëanaro. “We might as well give up on – ”

“No,” snapped Irimë. Dragging the parchment back towards her, she gripped the quill determinedly and bent over the parchment. Under her fingers, neat if rather spidery tengwar took shape, forming the words of the verse she had been set to memorize. 

Sooner than expected, she pushed the parchment across the table to her older brother and crossed her arms defiantly. “Not bad for a daughter of Indis, eh?” she said, challengingly. 

Fëanaro raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself as he looked over her work. “No,” he said. “Not bad at all…” 

“Good,” said Irimë, and shoved her chair back from the table. “Now can I go play?” 

“Go ahead,” said Fëanaro, still studying her work, and graced her with a rare smile. “You have earned it, well enough.”


	9. Fingon, Enigmatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. This takes place in a moment alone together between Fingon and Maedhros before the Nirnaeth. I do not generally believe that they actually got such a moment, but for the sake of this drabble…

It was dawn. Their armies were massing, Fingon’s hands were warm on his bare shoulders, and Maedhros’ thoughts had turned, in the sly way they sometimes did, to death. 

“Have you ever thought,” he asked quietly, leaning back in his chair as Fingon hummed and rubbed lightly at his shoulders, “about who would come after us, should we die in this attempt?” 

“Our brothers, of course,” said Fingon, pulling his fingers through Maedhros’ loose hair. “They shall take up where we – ” 

“I mean other than our brothers,” said Maedhros, rather glad he couldn’t meet Fingon’s eyes just now. “Another…generation. Have you ever thought that we have left none of our blood to come after us?” 

Fingon was quiet, his fingers busy as he began to braid Maedhros’ hair back from his face. Maedhros felt himself relax under the gentle pull on his scalp; doubtless he would end up with far more intricate braids than the simple ones that Maglor usually gave him. 

“Yes,” said Fingon at last, when his hands stilled and came to rest once again on Maedhros’ shoulders. “I have thought of it. Maitimo, if you – Should you ever find yourself at the Havens – ” He broke off, and Maedhros turned, curious, to look up at him. 

Fingon’s eyes were fixed on something distant, and his handsome face was preoccupied. 

“What?” Maedhros asked, reaching back to touch Fingon’s hand. 

“Nothing,” said Fingon, finally, and blinked, as if banishing some vision from before his eyes. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Maedhros’ forehead. “Never mind me. Put such thoughts from your mind, Maitimo. Think instead of the coming day.” He smiled, and turned his face to the rising sun. “There will always be those who come after.”


	10. Nerdanel, Tired

_A litter of puppies_ , thinks Nerdanel, and stretches out on the couch, a hand over her eyes.  _That’s what I have. But somehow more energetic and exhausting._

Her hands ache from a long day in the studio, and are dry and cracked from the frequent washings. She has always washed her hands frequently, being an artist of the…less than tidy persuasion, but when running noses, and bloody knees, and small mouths biting were added into the equation… What with one thing and another, she was always rinsing something sticky from her hands. 

“Nerdanel?” 

She gives a groan in answer. 

“Where are you?” 

She groans louder. There is the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by the scurry of small feet. 

“Help,” she says weakly. “They’ve found me.” 

Several small bodies hit her, and she opens her eyes helplessly, taking her sons into her arms. 

“Hello, lovelies.”

“Hello, my lovely.” Fëanaro comes into the room and smiles down at her as Tyelkormo pulls her shoes from her feet and Carnistir perches on her stomach, poking interestedly at the embroidery on her bodice. Tiny Curufinwë is in his father’s arms but reaches for her when her eyes light on him. 

“They’ve worn you out, have they?” 

“Yes.” Nerdanel sighs, but can’t help but smile as Curufinwë nestles into the crook of her arm. “I swear by the Valar, Fëanaro, you have granted me a veritable litter of wee ones. I should ban you from my bed.” 

“Now, we both know that won’t happen,” he says, sitting on the couch and lifting her feet into his lap as Tyelkormo clambers onto his shoulders. Out in the hallway, she can hear the sound of Maitimo and Makalaurë throwing a ball against the walls and arguing about some sort of point system. 

“I suppose we do,” she says, as Carnistir puts the tie of her belt into his mouth. “But ai, my boys. How you tire me out!” 

“How you love it,” says Fëanaro, and bends down to kiss her. 


	11. Celegorm, Intimidated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Sorry, I blatantly took advantage of this to write the Oromë and Celegorm in Valinor interaction I’ve been wanting to write ~~a novel~~ about since ~~the years of the trees~~ last month.

The elf is clearly very young, despite the determined set of his shoulders and the proud jut of his chin. He is also very nervous, and trying to pretend he isn’t, as he gazes up at the Vala before him. 

Oromë smiles, to put the boy at his ease, but tension still crackles through that strong young body as the elf blinks rapidly. 

“You are one of the grandsons of Finwë,” says Oromë, his low voice rumbling through the forest clearing. 

The boy shudders involuntarily as the great voice reverberates through him, but nods. “The third son of his firstborn. I’m Tyelkormo. My lord,” he adds hastily. 

“And why do you seek me out, Tyelkormo?” asks Oromë, watching him closely. Behind him, Nahar snorts impatiently, dragging a hoof along the bracken-strewn forest floor, and Tyelkormo steps back a pace, watching the massive horse warily. 

“Peace, Nahar,” says Oromë, laying a hand on the beast’s neck. “Well, child?” 

“I’m not a child,” says the boy, tossing his head defiantly so that his fair hair – almost silver, Oromë notices – catches the light. 

 _No_ , thinks Oromë.  _Not quite a child any longer_.  _Noticeably not a child, in fact._

“I wish to join your hunt,” says Tyelkormo, his bright eyes shining eagerly. “I wish to learn what you have to teach, and to become wise in the ways of wood lore, and to – to –” He falters and breaks off, his apprehension catching up with his enthusiasm once more. “I have wished to follow the horn of Oromë since I was small,” he says at last. “Please, will you teach me?” 

He kneels then, bowing his bright head, and Oromë finds himself moved by the gesture. He says a large hand on his shoulder, feeling the heat and anxiety and vitality of the boy stream through him at the touch. Tyelkormo shivers and raises his head. Their eyes meet, brown to gold, and Tyelkormo swallows visibly. 

“I would welcome you to my hunt, Tyelkormo, son of Fëanaro, son of Finwë,” says Oromë, as Nahar lets out a ringing whinny behind him, and Tyelkormo’s face lights with joy. 

“Thank you! My lord. I promise you won’t regret it.” 

“I look forward to seeing what you can learn at my side,” says Oromë, and  _knows_  he will not regret it. 

He is young, this elf, but his nerves are already fleeing, and he is clearly brave of heart, and – Oromë can’t but notice – he is very fair, indeed. 


	12. Indis, Confident

_They say she has longed for this for years._

Indis lifted her head, studying herself in the mirror. She tugged a curl from the knot at the back of her neck and let it fall loose and golden against her collarbones. 

_It is well enough, for some. Do you think she rejoiced at the news of Miriel’s passing?_

_A scavenger crow…_

She fastened the necklace of opals at her throat and lifted a hand to her earrings to make sure they were hanging straight. 

_She is beautiful, though. You cannot blame his eyes for falling on her…_

_Snakes can be beautiful, can they not?_

Indis stepped away from the mirror, twitching her skirts so they fell just so. It was good she was so tall; the sweep of her train would work that much better. 

_And what of the boy?_

_Aye. This will prove a mistake, you wait._

“To fuck with you all,” she whispered, and opened the door. Finwë’s eyes met hers from across the room, and everything else faded into the background. 

Smiling, she stepped forth.


	13. Haleth, Puzzled

“There is a new warrior amongst the elves,” her men whispered, amongst themselves. “A warrior who wields a double-headed axe, like one of the Stone-Lords. They say even Lord Caranthir defers to her.” 

_To **her**_? Haleth frowned. 

“Tell me more of this elven warrior,” she said, and her men looked up, guiltily. 

“They say she laughs in battle, and her hair shines like gold,” said one. 

“Nay,” said another. “They say she is silent as a panther and creeps on the enemy camps from above.” 

“From above? Don’t be daft.” 

“No, but listen, they say she climbs the cliffs, like a goat, and takes them unawares…” 

“How does she climb with that bloody great axe of hers?”

“She straps it to her back, fool.” 

“How do you know? Have you seen her?” 

“Where can I find this warrior?” asked Haleth, putting an end to the debate. Silent, they pointed.

-

Lalwen was not what she expected. 

Gazing up at the elf-woman, Haleth put her hands on her hips and squinted.   

“I’ve never seen an elf-maid in armor before.” 

“Hardly a maid anymore,” said Lalwen, amused. “If ever I was. But aye, we are a rare breed in these lands.” 

“I thought all elf-women were tall, fair beings in white.” 

“Always been short for my family,” said Lalwen, unconcerned. “And white shows the stains.” She grinned, baring long, white teeth, and looking momentarily very much like her nephew. 

“I thought all elf-women were beautiful, magical creatures who wept all the time,” Haleth went on, “or wove tapestries, or some such.” 

Lalwen spread her hands, showing rough, calloused palms. “I always got tangled at the loom,” she said. “And my spells turn out funny. I do weep, on occasion. The other day I ran my toe into a boulder, and Eru, you should have heard me.” 

“You are not what I expected.” 

“Well,” said Lalwen, and cocked her head. “I thought all Secondborn women were drudges, bound to their men and the cook fires, children at their teats.” 

“Point taken.” Haleth ran her hands against the pommel of her sword. 

“Mind you,” said Lalwen, thoughtfully, “there are plenty of fair elven ladies who weave and weep – I mean, who doesn’t weep, of a time? And to be honest, it’s the fair ones who run things, with their gentle hands and soft voices and spirits of fucking steel.” 

 “And there are more than a fair few Secondborn drudges, with teat-clinging babes,” acknowledged Haleth. “They work harder than any of us, survive when we fall, and endure like the stone under the mountains.” 

Lalwen met her eyes, an appreciative light in her face. “It is good to meet you, Lady Haleth.” 

“Likewise.” 

They clasped hands then, calloused palm to calloused palm. 

Haleth gave a rare smile. “You’re nae so foreign or confusing as all that, after all.” 

“What a shame,” said Lalwen, and laughed. “I rather like being a puzzle.”


	14. Maedhros, Playful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros getting playful is rather…alarming.

Maglor tore through the tower, eyes wild, hair in disarray. 

“ _Where is it_?” 

The steward of Himring wrung his hands and raised beseeching eyes to Maedhros. “My lord, I don’t know what – ” 

“He’s lost the draft of his latest piece of work,” said Maedhros coolly, leaning back against the wall and watching as his brother threw books from the shelves. 

“I swear, if someone has thrown it away, I will not be answerable for my actions!” cried Maglor, and overturned a table. 

Maedhros raised his eyebrows as the steward quailed. “Ooh. A threat indeed. Have you heard, friend, that my brother was the first to light the torches at Losgar?” 

“No,” lied the steward, staring fixedly at the floor. 

“It’s true.” Maedhros settled back, watching with interest as Maglor cursed and stormed down the stairs. “He is capable of great misdeeds, given the right circumstances. Well, at least this will give him a chance to burn off some steam. He’s been whinging about that composition for weeks.” 

“Has he?” murmured the steward. 

“Yes. It was…rather wearing on my nerves.” 

“Ah.” The steward thought it best not to comment on this. Everyone in the fortress knew when Lord Maglor was struggling with a composition, and they all steered clear. 

Maedhros sighed and glanced at the setting sun through the window. “Another hour, I think, and he’ll be disconsolate enough that any sign of the papers in question will be a relief,” he said. “And hopefully, the worst of the angst will burn up in that time.” 

The steward shot a suddenly suspicious glance at his lord, and a rare smile flickered across Maedhros’ grim, scarred face. It quite transformed him. 

“He’ll never think to check in here,” Maedhros said, tapping a finger against the leather brace binding his right wrist, and the steward jumped and flinched at his sudden laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Maedhros humor headcanons [here](http://imindhowwelayinjune.tumblr.com/post/99376921353/hwarang-replied-to-your-post-maedhros-82) and [here](http://imindhowwelayinjune.tumblr.com/post/99410206723/eehn-replied-to-your-post-hwarang-replied-to-your)


	15. Maglor, Lustful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I was gonna make this more raunchy but then I thought about hormonal young elves and decided to laugh at Maglor instead.

Makalaurë groaned and cast himself down on his brother’s bed. Maitimo, who’d been busy writing at his desk, looked up, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes?” 

“Help, Maitimo,” said Makalaurë, and pulled a pillow over his face. 

Maitimo frowned, putting down his quill. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“I think I’m doomed.” 

“What?” Maitimo got up and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting solicitous hand on Makalaurë’s shoulder. “Makalaurë. What’s going on?” 

“I’m broken.” Makalaurë groaned and pulled the pillow away from his scarlet face. “I’m failing all my studies. I can’t concentrate on anything. Even the things I enjoy! The other day I forgot a basic chord. The day before that I was actually off-key.” He looked at Maitimo, agonized. “How do you deal with it?” 

Maitimo was still looking confused. “Deal with what?” 

Makalaurë turned a deeper shade of red, and hid his face again. “The…feelings.”

“The – ” 

“There’s this girl at the market,” said Makalaurë, into the pillow. “She smiles at me when I go to buy flowers for Amil. And I can’t stop  _thinking_  about her. At the worst times! And the other day, at the river, there were…maidens. Bathing. And…” He rolled over and curled into a ball. “…and I don’t think I’ve been able to even spell a single word correctly since, much less finish my composition on the constraints of the hröa. That’s the problem, see. My damn hröa is entirely  _preoccupied_.” 

Comprehension dawned, and Maitimo looked embarrassed too. “ _Oh_.” 

“How do you deal with it?” 

Maitimo looked uncomfortable. “Ah. I’ve never actually had the sorts of problems you describe? Sorry,” he added apologetically, as Makalaurë looked up at him with an expression of betrayal. 

“Oh.  _Good_. Yet another way in which I’ll never be able to live up to you. You’re too perfect even to have to deal with horribly embarrassing incidents involving thinking of maidens in wet blouses. And then being unable to stand up straight when grandfather calls on you to give your presentation lest you reveal too much…” 

Maitimo coughed to cover a laugh. 

“ _It’s not funny._ ” 

“It’s a little funny.” 

“You’re not being  _at all_  helpful.” 

“I could get you some ice water,” said Maitimo, and ducked as Makalaurë hurled the pillow at his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. For what it's worth, I headcanon Maedhros as demisexual.


	16. Celegorm, Tied Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm gets tied up with his own bowstring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. A prompt from Snartha

Celegorm bared his teeth, irrepressible despite the cloth binding his eyes. “So now that you have me like you want me, what’s your plan?” He licked his lips. “What are you going to do with me?”

His teasing tone was cut off as a strong hand shoved him down. “Don’t make me yield to the urge to gag you as well.”

Celegorm chuckled, even as his wrists were secured above his head. “Don’t deprive yourself of all I can do with my mouth…” There was no answer as his restraints were pulled tight, and Celegorm grunted a little. “No soft cords, those. I could give you a lesson on how best to bind someone.”

“I made use of what I had access to. Fine bow of yours, that was.”

Celegorm swore, mischief evaporating. “Bloody Ainur, do you know where I got that? Why didn’t you use something else?”

“You really do talk too much,” said the voice thoughtfully, and then the blindfold was yanked from his eyes.

Celegorm blinked at the sudden burst of light, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have a _plan_ for me?”

“Of course I do, dog.” A hand slapped him lightly across the face. “It would involve teaching you a lesson in civility and hospitality and the meaning of the word _no_ , but I don’t have time for the full workshop.”

“And instead – ”

“Instead, I shall leave you here. You seem secure enough.”

Celegorm glowered. “And what now for you?”

“Now,” said Lúthien cheerfully, “I go to do what you and your brothers have been failing to do all these long years.” She waved merrily, and Celegorm strained against his bonds.

“Wait!”

“I’ve waited too long already,” said Lúthien, already striding off, as Celegorm cursed and fought the bowstring knotted around his wrists. “And you and your brother have made me unpardonably late. I’ll give the Dark Lord your regards, shall I?”


	17. Aredhel/OFC, Throne Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel reigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Dark AU that happened when Elleth prompted 'throne sex for Aredhel and a lady of my choice', and I went off the rails entirely.  
> 1\. Elinel is my OFC, a Himring guard and aide to Maedhros.  
> 2\. Warnings for allusions to violence.

In the shadowed great hall, the figure on the dais glowed like a beacon, her white leathers stark against the mahogany of the heavy chair. It was impossible for Elinel not to think of it as a throne, given the scale and the ancient grandiosity of the hall. Trying not to stare, Elinel gave a short bow.

“My…lady,” she said, a little uncertain as to the proper title. “I bring you greetings from Lord Maedhros of Himring.”

“Ahh, dear thoughtful cousin Nelyo,” said Aredhel, leaning forward, a twinkle in her eyes. “What does old Lefty have to say?”

“He sent me to ascertain – to ascertain…” Elinel swallowed. Aredhel’s leathers fit _distractingly_ well and her mind was straying from her task. More and more, her purpose in being sent here was seeming pointless. “Your safety?”

“That was nice of him.”

“He had heard,” Elinel forced herself to go on with her message, “from his brothers, and from his cousin, your noble brother, that you might be in…need of help.”

“Ooh, indeed.” Aredhel nodded, tapping her finger to her lips. “I can see why he might think that.”

“He was concerned about rumors he’d heard of the Dark Elf.” Elinel tried not to look at the severed head on the pike that stood at Aredhel’s side, but it was rather hard.

“Of course.”

“Concerned about his…intent?”

“As well he might be.” Aredhel still looked grave and attentive, and Elinel felt increasingly ridiculous. “Anything else?”

“That is all. My lady,” added Elinel belatedly.

“Please just call me Aredhel,” said Aredhel good-naturedly. “You have likely earned that familiarity, as you did spend the last night and this morning in my bed. But I’m glad we got you the chance to deliver Red’s message. I hope you can put his mind at ease as to my well-being.” She patted the severed head of Eöl at her side. “If that’s all, you should feel free to join me up here and do what you’ve been imagining for the past twenty minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Elinel gratefully, and dropped to her knees before the Queen of Nan Elmoth, fingers already flying to the laces of her tunic. “My lady.”


	18. Finrod/Barahir, First Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barahir was not prepared for Finrod to like it this much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Prompt from Sath: "barahir's dick is so bomb that finrod cries a lil"  
> 1\. Wherein 'a lil' means 'copiously.'  
> 2\. Humor, blasphemy, sexual content.

“I don’t know about this.”

“I am sure you will do very well.”

“I appreciate your faith, my lord, but I am not sure I share it.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“But it helps me, my lord.”

“Very well then.”

Barahir looked down, adjusted his hands on Finrod’s hips, and then widened his stance. He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me,” said Finrod affectionately, which struck Barahir as a very foolish thing to say.

“You are just so good at this, and I – I do not want to mess it up.”

Finrod reached up and stroked Barahir’s cheek. “My dear boy, not only do I have the utmost faith in your innate skill, I also believe fully in your ability as a student, and I do not think I am overstating to say you have paid very close attention during my own demonstrations. Now. We have been talking for nearly twenty minutes, and while your vigor apparently remains as steadfast as ever, I fear my own shall shrink if you do not – Ahh. Oooh. _Yes_. Do _that_.”

* * *

“Are you quite well, my lord?” Several minutes later, Barahir was bent conscientiously over Finrod, who was gasping.

Finrod’s long and graceful fingers scrabbled desperately at Barahir’s hip, seeking to draw him back in. “No, no, no…”

“No?” Barahir looked alarmed.

“No! Don’t stop, please, please…”

“You said you were ready.”

“Ai, Elbereth, Manwë, Eru Ilúvatar…”

“Stop blaspheming, the ghost of my father keeps glaring at me.”

“Your father! Oh Eru…” Finrod groaned and tossed his head back, his damp hair spread across the pillow. Sweat rolled down his temples. “You are _destroying_ me.”

“I am sorry.” Barahir moved experimentally, and Finrod actually sobbed. “Does this mean I am doing it right?”

“Doing it right!” Finrod opened his eyes, tears spilling down his flushed cheeks. “After this night I shall be ruined forever more. No, don’t stop, never stop, anything you want, I shall give you. I am abidingly yours, I pledge my oath to you, your kin, anything you want is yours…”

“My lord, you are babbling.” Barahir shifted experimentally, and Finrod’s fingers drew blood from his sides as he arched his back, his thighs so tight around Barahir’s waist that Barahir winced. “Finrod, _seriously_.”

* * *

By the time Finrod came for the third time, he had already promised Barahir his first born, his kingdom, and his kidney (though Barahir had his doubts about at least one of these three). Later, lying in bed with a slumbering Finrod’s arms around him, Barahir silently vowed never to top again.

The results were far too alarming.


	19. Finrod/Barahir, Forsworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An oath begins with a single step on rock-strewn ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Ficlet explicitly based on [this picture](http://goldenhallofmeduseld.tumblr.com/post/103651662751/barahir-and-finrod).  
> Because all I need is Finrod the sad burrito being cradled by Barahir.

“This was not…not how it was supposed to go.”

Footsteps over rock scree, treading carefully so as not to slip and send both walker and the precious bundle in his arms tumbling.

“I have…miscalculated somewhere along the way.”

A slightly unsteady landing on a rock, a shift as arms tightened, then loosened as the walker regained his balance.

The fumble had prompted a pained gasp, a whistle between bloodied teeth. The words came out between ragged pauses for breath. “I should go back. My hands are still…strong. Where is my sword -”

“Strong your hands may be, but your legs couldn’t carry you from your tent to the latrine.”

“I do not…wish to go to the latrine. I wish to return to the field.” The voice broke on a groan. “Aaahh. I could perhaps use some…strong brandy for this twinge in my side…”

“You mean your broken rib?” Barahir adjusted his grip on the long body folded into his arms, tugging the trailing white and gold cloak up out of the mud and wrapping it more securely. “I think you will need more than brandy for that, milord.”

“I detect a soupçon of insubordination in your tone,” whispered Finrod. “A hint…of sarcasm. I could have you sacked, you know.”

“I don’t think you employ me, actually.”

“I can check on that, but I imagine I could fire you if I wanted to.” Finrod shifted restlessly in Barahir’s arms. “You didn’t have to do that, Barahir.”

“Which?” Barahir fixed his eyes on the distant hummock that marked their encampment. “I’ve done a number of things today, from slapping a young soldier who’d shat his trousers to remind him he was still alive, to spitting someone else’s hair and scalp from my mouth – to saving your lordly arse.” His voice came out terse, tightened by the fear that had nearly unmanned him when he’d seen that figure, shining in white and gold, fall beneath the mire of battle.

“I have been told it’s a rather fine arse,” said Finrod, and smiled before going so pale that Barahir’s heart lurched.

“Milord?” He halted, holding Finrod close but as gently as he could, mindful of the broken ribs.

There was a long pause, during which Barahir started to panic and contemplate sprinting the last distance to the encampment, despite the discomfort it would cause Finrod, and his own exhaustion.

“Do you not agree?” said Finrod at last, and one of his hands came up to twist into the front of Barahir’s mail. There was a trace of familiar warm humor in his voice, despite the weakness of it. “Or do you think it only a passable arse?”

Barahir let out a breath and started to stride forward again as Finrod’s head came to rest against his breast. “I think I have demonstrated that I find it most pleasing,” he said, lowering his head a little so his chin brushed against stray wisps of Finrod’s golden hair.

“It has been a very long while,” whispered Finrod, his breath warm on Barahir’s collarbone. “I thought I might have forgotten, or imagined…”

“You forget nothing.”

“I thought you might have forgotten, then.”

“There are some things,” Barahir said, his lips brushing Finrod’s crown. “That one never forgets.” He kissed the top of Finrod’s head, above where the gore clotted the golden hair and then said, “Hush now. I am going to run.”

Finrod fainted somewhere still a quarter league out. When he woke again, a day later and in the healer’s tent with his ribs wrapped and his leg bandaged, the first face he sought was Barahir’s, and the first hand he clasped was one that would later bear a green-stone ring.  


	20. Aredhel/Vana, Friends Amongst the Valar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Not only Celegorm had friends amongst Valar, and Aredhel frequently accompanied him on his visits to Oromë, who didn’t dwell alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. A prompt from isilloth for Femslash February.  
> 1\. It should probably come as a surprise to no one that I latched onto this prompt.  
> 2\. Sexual content, alcohol.

Irissë cleared her throat as delicately as she was able, and then, as the burn continued down her throat, she gave up and coughed violently, wiping at her mouth, throwing ‘ladylike’ to the winds.

Considering how little she was wearing, ‘ladylike’ was probably a lost cause anyway.

Vána laughed merrily as Irissë wiped at her streaming eyes. “Ah, sweet City Elf, do not let our nectar hurt your delicate throat!”

“Shut up,” wheezed Irissë, who was well beyond feeling abashed at being rude to a Valier. “ ‘Nectar’, by the cunt of Varda – this isn’t nectar, it’s poison.”

Vána sipped from her own goblet, folding her legs delicately before her. Irissë tried not to be distracted by how inadequate the Queen of Blossoming Flowers’ loincloth was. “Try another sip, if you are up for it. I promise you it gets better with time.”

Cautiously, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion – and still flickering, despite her best efforts, to the hollow of Vána’s thighs – Irissë took another drink. This time the heat slid down her throat and into her belly with ease, and something golden and blazing lit up her veins. Her eyes widened.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” agreed Vána, her dark eyes alive with amusement.

“So this is what they are talking about,” murmured Irissë, and yielded to the temptation to slink across the floor to curl up with her head in Vána’s lap. “When they speak of the ecstasy of Vána’s revels…”

“The ecstasy does not come from the drink alone,” said Vána, and bent down to trace her tongue along the tip of Irissë’s ear. Irissë rolled over, and her lips parted, welcoming Vána’s sweet tongue. “Goodness me, City Elf, and to think I suspected you prudish…”

“City Elves can revel too,” muttered Irissë, and bowed her head to seek the yet sweeter nectar between Vána’s thighs.


	21. Finrod/Edrahil, Relieving Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edrahil seeks to relieve his lord's frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Prompt from Silje, with bonus for 'Curufin very present, but not actually there.'  
> 1\. Warnings for lord/vassal dynamics and blowjobs.

“Thank you, all of you, for your input. I shall take it under advisement.”

Finrod held his smile until the last person had bowed and withdrawn from the hall. He held his smile until the last chair had been pushed back from the council table, until the last voice murmured into silence around the corner of the door, until that last pair of eyes – grey, mocking – had finally released him.

Then he stood up, walked out into the back hallway, closed the door carefully behind him – and searched, in good faith, for a wall he could punch without breaking his hand.

“Why did we have to carve the whole damn thing from stone,” he muttered, and then collapsed onto a bench in a small alcove and contented himself with swearing colorfully for five minutes, because he was, after all, in solitude, and no one could blush at the things the King of Nargothrond said amongst the dust mice and cobwebs.

“My lord?”

Or so he had thought.

“ – heaving bollocks,” finished Finrod, and glanced up, too weary to find his bland smile again. “Oh, hello, Edrahil. My apologies.”

“For what, my lord?” Edrahil held out his handkerchief politely, and Finrod used it to wipe plaster dust from his robes. Some had shaken loose from the ceiling after he had kicked the wall vigorously for the third time.

“For the coarse language.” Finrod shook his head in self-reproach. “Forgive me, had I known someone was within hearing, I would not have profaned quite so vigorously.”

Edrahil smiled faintly. “I assure you it is no worse than what we get in the barracks, my lord, though your vocabulary is rather better.”

“Well, that is something I suppose.” Finrod got to his feet, and Edrahil took up position at his elbow. They began to walk along the long, dark passageway, one frequented by few as it came from the least used entrance to the council chambers, and Finrod felt grateful that he would not have to greet anyone else. Edrahil was at least never burdensome.  

Edrahil cleared his throat. “A difficult meeting, I take it?”

“Only in practice.” Finrod rubbed at his eyes. “In theory it was to be very straight forward, a simple matter of a hunting treaty, allowing reciprocal rights during game season with some of the Edain whose territory borders ours, but in _practice_ …” Grey eyes and a cool, even, insufferable voice flickered through his memory, and a headache began to prickle behind Finrod’s eyes. “In practice, there is always something else to contend with.”

“Or someone. Some cousin of yours, perhaps?” Edrahil’s voice was knowing, and Finrod, his patience already shorter than usual, blew out a breath.

“Careful you do not forget yourself,” he said, before he could stop the words from escaping him, and he cursed inwardly as he saw Edrahil salute, his face impassive. _Damn_.

“Forgive my familiarity, sire,” said Edrahil, stiffly formal, and Finrod caught his elbow.

“No, forgive my short temper.” _And damn that ‘cousin of mine’ for always bringing out the worst in me. He knows it, too, and enjoys it_. “It was not you, old friend, but my weariness that pricked me.” Edrahil looked down at his arm in Finrod’s hand, and Finrod squeezed it reassuringly. “It has been too long a day.”

“I understand, my lord,” said Edrahil softly, and then he turned his arm so that he was holding Finrod’s wrist in turn. He looked up into Finrod’s face, questioning, and Finrod smiled at him.

“Yes?”

“Let me take some of your weariness,” said Edrahil, in a rush.

“Do you propose to carry me back to my chambers?” said Finrod, laughing.

“No, my lord.” Still holding Finrod’s arm almost reverently, Edrahil sank to his knees at Finrod’s feet. Finrod touched his helmeted head, confused, and Edrahil reached up to pull the helmet off, his braid falling over his shoulder in some disarray. “Let me – ” Edrahil touched the point of Finrod’s hip through the fine linen of his robes as carefully as if it might burn him. “Let me help you relieve some tension.”

Understanding dawned, and Finrod smoothed his hand over Edrahil’s helmet-ruffled hair. “Edrahil, I cannot ask you – ”

“You are not asking,” said Edrahil, gazing up at him. “I am offering. Please.”

Finrod could not bring himself to tell him no.

Not when his arousal had stirred at the sight of the guard at his knees, not when his blood – already roused by the tension of the council meeting and _that damned voice_ – quickened at the touch of Edrahil’s gloved hand to his hip, not when ‘ _relief’_ sounded so…appealing.

 _I am tired,_ he told himself. _It has been a long day, and he offers…_

And so he let Edrahil push his robes up, let himself lean back against the wall and close his eyes, letting out only the faintest of moans when Edrahil’s mouth closed around him. He let himself card his fingers through the loose strands of hair escaping Edrahil’s braid, let himself buck up into the touch of soft leather gloves.

There was no need for Edrahil to know what face he pictured, or what voice he imagined as he moaned, and after he finished he pulled Edrahil to his feet and stroked his cheek, and thanked him, and chastely kissed the corner of his mouth.

Edrahil’s smile was true enough, his murmured ‘ _The pleasure was mine_ ’ sincere enough, that when Finrod went back to his rooms, alone, the guilt kept him awake only a little.


	22. Fingon/Maedhros, Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you familiar with the Feast of The Urges of the Heart?”_ Fingon and Maedhros deal with an unsolicited suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. An anonymous Valentine's prompt from Tumblr.  
> 1\. Humor, allusions to sexual content, petitions.

The guard worked to catch his breath, having run up to the tower room from the yard up several flights of stairs. He had a mental vision of the king seeing his flushed face and labored breathing and saying, cheerfully, ‘I see we need to up our cardiovascular training! What’s your marching pace, my good man? Let’s see how we can improve your stamina.’

It had happened before.

So the guard got his breathing under control, tucked his hair hastily back under his helmet, and knocked politely at the door.

There was no response.

He knocked again, louder.

Still no response.

Refusing to give up and return down all seven flights of stairs, the guard threw polite formality to the winds and pounded on the door until it was yanked open.

“Apologies, your majesty,” he began, and then stopped.

Fingon was not the one standing in the doorway, shirtless and with an expression of intense annoyance. Rather Fingon’s cousin, Maedhros the famously Tall and infamously Unamused, was glaring down at him.

“Is the castle under attack?” The rough, low voice echoed slightly in the stone corridor.

“What?” said the guard, taken aback. “Um, no, sir.”

“Something on fire? Or perhaps a flood?”

“The cook burnt the pheasant again, but - nosir, not like you meansir.”

“Has anyone of note died?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“A fell beast attacking the keep?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Then there is absolutely nothing that could warrant this interruption, and I will thank you to piss off until I am done with - I mean, until your king has the time to deal with you.”

Maedhros made to shut the door, but the guard wedged his foot into it, risking losing a toe and winning himself a bladder-loosening glare from Maedhros. 

“Please, sir, wait! There is a petition…most urgent…hundreds of signatures…”

“Oh, let him in, Maitimo,” came the king’s voice from out of sight. “I can take five minutes to listen to the lad - Let me find my trousers and I’ll be right there.”

Which was how the guard came to find himself perched on an ottoman before two chairs by the fire, one containing a shirtless and still skeptical kinslayer, and one containing a somewhat more jovial but equally shirtless high king.

“Now, what’s all this about,” said Fingon, putting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. “A petition, you say? From my subjects? What does it concern?”

“Y-yes, sire,” said the guard nervously. “Um. Are you familiar with the Feast of The Urges of the Heart?”

“No,” said Maedhros.

“I think so,” Fingon said. He turned to Maedhros. “It’s one of those new celebrations that folk have been coming up with to mark of the cold times of the year - they’ve become increasingly popular to deal with what the healers call ‘seasonal-affected melancholy’ or ‘the winter dyspepsia’. I’ve found more and more of them spring up after battles with significant loses, when the people need something to feel hopeful about again…”

“Yes,” said the guard. “It’s one of those.”

“I quite liked the one that involved all the costumes and pranks and was somehow about the balance of life with death. What does this one involve?”

“Well, the people tend to exchange gifts with those they fancy or admire, and then there are feasts to celebrate love and desire - ”

“Can anyone go to these feasts, or just those who have someone to love and desire?” interrupted Maedhros.

“Anyone can go, sir! A Heart’s Desires can include any number of things, after all. Food, wine, good confectionary treats, ribald music, the exchange of intimate fluids with or without long-term admiration or romance…”

“I see,” said Fingon, who looked curious. “And what does this all have to do with me? Do they wish their king to contribute in some way?”

“That’s sort of what it boils down to,” said the guard, losing his nerve again.

“I am happy to sponsor a feast,” said Fingon. “I can open some casks of wine, dispense food and ale and - well, I cannot provide the intimate fluids, but I shall leave that to the people themselves. No? You look like I have not gotten the answer right. What exactly does the petition request?”

“It requests,” mumbled the guard, “that as a beloved king, and one whose heart is large… and whose visage is comely, and well-beloved… that as a symbol of the Heart’s Desire of many, you might celebrate the holiday with a public…a public display…” His voice faded into an embarrassed cough.

Both Maedhros and Fingon leaned forward. “What was that last part?”

“They suggest that a joyful public celebrating of love and desire would be most inspirational,” squeaked the guard. “They have sent me with a list of suggested activities, and a costume, which you can decide whether or not to - ” As he flourished what looked like a worryingly small codpiece, most fetching in pink and lace, Maedhros rose to his feet.

After the clatter of someone in light mail rolling down a flight of stairs and saying ‘ow’ quietly at the bottom had subsided, Maedhros shut and locked the door.

“That might have been an overreaction,” said Fingon mildly, who was turning the codpiece over to see where the rest of it was. “Where do you suppose this stringy thing goes?”

“An overreaction? He was wielding a petition that was requesting a public demonstration of the act of love for the eager eyes of your subjects.” Maedhros tossed the petition into the fire. “Did you see some of their suggestions?”

“Yes,” said Fingon, slingshotting the codpiece across the room so that it caught on Maedhros’ ear. “And it sounded rather like what you were suggesting earlier, before we were interrupted.”

“That may be,” said Maedhros, unhooking the offending garment from his ear and starting to stalk across the room with a glint in his eye. “But MY ideas did not require an audience.”

“Don’t throw that away,” said Fingon, as Maedhros dropped to his knees before Fingon and made to toss the codpiece towards the fire. “I may - oh, gods, I should make your mouth illegal - I may have a use for it later.” He gasped and leaned back in the chair, hooking his legs over Maedhros’ shoulders. “It’s a shame it will clash so appallingly with your coloring.”


	23. Silm/LotR Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship as the Feanorions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. For the prompt: Swap the sons of Feanor with the Fellowship of the Ring. Either write a scene from LOTR with the Feanorions carrying the ring OR a scene from the Silm using some or all of the Nine Walkers.  
>   
>  **Helpful key**
> 
> Merry and Pippin – Ambarussa  
> Frodo – Maedhros  
> Legolas – Celegorm  
> Gimli – Curufin  
> Sam – Maglor  
> Boromir – Caranthir  
> Aragorn – Fëanor

“DAMN,” said Gimli loudly. “This accursed hound! Its smell is all over my axe.”

“He thought it was a stick to fetch,” said Legolas, and crooned, “Who’s a good boy then?”

Huan barked happily.

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam uneasily, clutching at his mouth harp, “Have you noticed Strider going a bit…funny-like, lately?”

“How do you mean, Sam?” asked Frodo, whose arm was in a sling. The bandages were still leaking rather badly.

“Well,” said Sam, twanging at the mouth harp, a nervous fidget. “He set our canoes on fire, for one.”

“Pip!” cried Merry, aghast. “Pippin went back to the boats, looking for second dinner!”

“I told you all to expect rather fewer rations in the wild,” said Aragorn quietly.

Merry tore at his curls. “Pippin was in those boats you set alight!”

“Maybe,” said Frodo, tugging at Aragorn’s sleeve with his remaining hand, “we could put them out?”

Aragorn shook his head, and laughed. “Let the canoes burn!” he said. “We have no need of them now.”

Merry wailed and collapsed onto one of the packs. “Poor Pip,” he whispered. “Fated to burn for the yearnings of his stomach.”

Sam tried discreetly to adjust Frodo’s bandages. “You’re leaking again, Mr. Frodo, sir.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“I told you you shouldn’t have gone after that bird’s nest.”

“It was a good idea at the time,” said Frodo absently. “And anyway, the eagle dropped me back off on the ground eventually.”

“After it had et your hand, though.”

“It waited around a little while first.” Frodo frowned. “It was like it was expecting someone to come, and then they didn’t, and so it sort of shook its head and…well, you know.” He waved his stump.

Boromir, who had been seething quietly by a tree, leapt to his feet and pounded his fist on the stump they’d been using for a dinner table. “Yea more! Let not this son of rangers lead us further into madness! Who died and made him king?”

Legolas sprang to his feet and drew one of his white knives. His hair shone in the firelight, but in a noncommittal way, colorwise. “This is no mere ranger! He is Aragorn, son of Finwë, son of – um, right. You owe him your allegiance. But if you want to make it tough on yourself, let it be so.” He flourished the knife, and Boromir looked disbelievingly at Gimli.

“Can you believe this guy?”

But Gimli smiled. He spoke more softly than Legolas, but with no less power. “Bring it on, buddy.”

A brawl broke out, and Sam clutched his ears, his mouth harp dropping to the ground. Frodo stood aside, absently fidgeting with his bandages.

“This happens every time Gandalf goes for one of his smoke breaks,” Sam moaned. “I wish I’d never left Tirion.”

“So do all who live to see such times,” said Frodo. “Hey look! I found some kids.”


	24. Turgon & Maeglin (& Aredhel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. For the prompt: Maeglin in Gondolin, either from Turgon's perspective or a series of interactions between the two characters.   
> 1\. Angst and character death herein.

It was perhaps to be expected that Turgon would watch his nephew closely. For signs of trauma after Aredhel’s death, or Valar knew, for signs of trauma after the entire life he had led, with a father like that… He watched to see how Maeglin was adjusting to life in Gondolin, to see how he got along with his cousin, with the other nobles…

But in truth, Turgon watched Maeglin so avidly because he was trying to see what of his sister remained in her son.

In the beginning, he came close to giving up on seeing any of Aredhel in the boy; perhaps he was too much his father’s son, or – Turgon tried to be more charitable – perhaps the boy was simply his own person. Maeglin’s stubborn silence and dour demeanor, his preoccupation with dark places and his fixation on his work – none of it felt like Aredhel.

Turgon tried not to be disappointed. He knew it wasn’t fair to try and replace his lost, beloved sister with her grieving, lonely son, and so he was warm and kind to the boy regardless; perhaps even more so, out of guilt. And as Maeglin grew slightly less chilly towards him, Turgon found he didn’t have to force himself to feel affection.

And he discovered there was more of Aredhel in her son than he had suspected.

“Is this your own creation?” he’d asked once, curious, as he bent over a device sitting on Maeglin’s forge.

“No,” said Maeglin, and Turgon looked up in surprise. “No clue where it came from, perhaps Salgant laid it like an egg the last time he was here, he was looking broody.”

Turgon opened his mouth, baffled, and then Maeglin gave a half-grin, the smile lifting the corner of his mouth, and Turgon felt his throat close up with emotion to see Aredhel’s dimples on Maeglin’s pale cheek.

“Yes, it is mine,” Maeglin acknowledged, and didn’t seem to notice that it was a moment before Turgon could speak.

“It is very wonderful,” he said at last, and Maeglin smiled faintly in pleasure, showing both dimples this time, and Turgon could almost hear Aredhel’s teasing voice as he turned away hastily to dab at his eyes.

_You sentimental old thing._

It happened more and more after that, that as Turgon got to know his nephew as Maeglin, rather than simply as ‘Aredhel’s son’, he saw his sister in brief moments.

In Maeglin’s wry humor, and in his stubbornness. The first time he saw Maeglin shoot a retort back at Ecthelion across the council table, Turgon watched his captain struggle to respond to the narrow youth glaring at him, and heard in Maeglin’s words his sister’s temper and determination.

_Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, I know what I’m talking about!_

He saw his sister in the strength of Maeglin’s arm as he wielded a hammer, remembering how Aredhel used to attract a small crowd to watch her bend a long bow with now more effort than if she were fashioning a flower crown.

And he laughed, seeing his sister’s frustration as he watched Maeglin curse and struggle to drag a comb through his dark curls before a feast.

“She always used to just stuff it into a net rather than try to brush it,” he said, as another comb snapped off in Maeglin’s hand.

Maeglin threw the comb into the corner of the room and dropped down on a chair, scowling. “Yes, I remember. I imagine that will look less fetching on me, however.”

“Here,” said Turgon, unable to stop himself. He crossed the room and retrieved a brush from the dresser. “May I?” Maeglin shrugged warily. “As it turns out,” said Turgon softly, as he ran a brush through his nephew’s hair, “I have some experience with helping tame these wild locks.”

Maeglin tensed, and then relaxed under Turgon’s gentle hands, and Turgon told him stories of their youth in Valinor.

“Yes,” Maeglin would say at times. “She told me that one.”

After that, as Turgon’s love and trust in his nephew grew, he felt his sister’s presence like a warmth at the back of his mind every time he touched Maeglin’s shoulder in affection, and he felt closer to her than he had since her departure from Gondolin.

In no short time, he saw Aredhel’s valor and fearlessness when Maeglin rode at his side into the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and her hunter’s ferocity as Maeglin wielded his father’s sword and raised his face to the sky, painted in blood. 

When they recovered Maeglin, long after the battle, he saw Aredhel’s unwillingness to show weakness in the way the boy fought all those who tried to help him, and in the way he snarled at comfort.

But by the time he might have seen beyond the stubbornness to the truth, it was too late.

By the time Idril flung herself at Maeglin with teeth and nails and naked blade, Turgon’s body was crushed and broken beneath the ruins of his city, and he could not see his sister’s dimples flash one last time as Maeglin gave a wild, mad grin, and fell.


	25. Feanor & Finarfin & Fingolfin, Card Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Half-brother bonding nights with some hints of Finwion wives having Lilith Fair weekends together.  
> 1\. Alcohol herein, and Finarfin makes some naughty half-sibling jokes, ignore him.

“Go fish,” said Arafinwë, and propped his chin on his hand.

Fëanáro threw his hands into the air. “You are just making things up at this point! Go _fish_? Where? There are no minnows in this card game unless you are hiding them somewhere, you half-Teler oddity.”

“Whoops,” said Nolofinwë, bending down to gather the cards Fëanáro had thrown into the air when he’d gestured. “You lost some of your hand there, Fëanáro.”

“ _Go fish_ is not a literal imperative,” said Arafinwë, smiling with half-lidded eyes as he gazed at his brother. “It is simply the phrase for when the next player has to draw a card.”

“I still think you two are making up rules simply to jest at my expense,” muttered Fëanáro, taking his cards back from Nolofinwë. “Alqualondë Poker makes absolutely no logical sense and never has. You best not have peeked at any of these, Nolofinwë.”

“Never,” said Nolofinwë, and then stage whispered, “He was lying about not having any scarlet lords, Arfin.”

“I knew it,” said Arafinwë. “Remove an item of clothing, Fëanáro.”

“I thought that was only the penalty for losing a bet!”

“It’s for rule-breaking as well,” said Nolofinwë placidly.

“These weekly card games were such a good idea,” said Arafinwë, sorting happily through his hand. “Our fair wives were truly inspired when they came up with this as a way of aiding family bonding.”

“Our fair wives just wanted some time to themselves to go get plastered with the devotees of Vána,” said Nolofinwë, as Fëanáro snorted.

“Too true,” he muttered, dropping his tunic to the ground. “You won’t believe where I found berry stains on Nerdanel after their last ‘ladies venture.’”

“I bet I could guess,” said Arafinwë brightly. “It may correspond to the briar scratches Eärwen was exhibiting on her – ”

“I call,” said Nolofinwë, spreading out his cards.  

“What?” exclaimed Fëanáro. “Already? Go fish.”

“Wrong usage,” said Arafinwë. “Take off another item.”

“Another item and this is going to turn into a Devotees of Vána moment,” said Fëanáro, dropping both his cards and his trousers. “I show three doubles.”

“And not a bad single,” said Arafinwë, peeking over the edge of the table.

“That’s quite enough wine for you, Arfin,” said Nolofinwë, moving Arafinwë’s goblet out of reach. “But settle a bet for us, half-brother. Do you really have ‘First son of Finwë’ embroidered into the back of all your smallclothes?”

“Did Nerdanel tell – ” Fëanáro began, and then let out a triumphant cry. “Hah! My three pair beats your aristocratic run, Arafinwë, give me all your minnows.”

“Money,” corrected Arafinwë, pushing his pouch across the table. “But you do seem to finally be picking up on some of the nuances of the game.”

“I feel closer to you both already,” said Fëanáro, poking through the coins piling up in front of him. “Perhaps this is the key to developing fraternal closeness.”

“Robbing us blind?” Nolofinwë pushed his own pouch across the table with a sigh. “I suppose it is better than the other thing Arafinwë was going to suggest.”

“Shh,” murmured Arafinwë. “I was drunk at the time.”

“You’re drunk now.”

“It’s good wine.”

“And you’re hogging it all, you lush birdbrain.”

“The children of Indis,” said Fëanáro, who was piling up his coins by size, “are truly the oddest of creatures.”

“Says the man with his birth order embroidered into his pants.”

“You can’t prove that,” said Fëanáro, with dignity.

“We can if you break another rule or lose another bet,” said Arafinwë, stealing his goblet back.

“Wrong, I still have my hose.”

“Yes, you certainly do – ”

“Arfin, _stop drinking_.”

“Our wives,” said Fëanáro, leaning back and drinking straight out of the wine jug. “Are either very wise, or very wicked. Deal us another hand, brother.”


	26. Turin/Orodreth, Thinking of Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. For the prompt: Turin/Orodreth, preferably thinking about other people at the time.  
> 1\. Alcohol, incestuous implications, glum sex.

Elves, Túrin thought, certainly had a tendency to get maudlin when they drank. Beleg had always gotten both more poetic and affectionate in a mournful sort of way when he’d had a wineskin or two, and he would be prone to stroking Túrin’s face, and sighing, and looking at him as though he could see some future there. 

“What do you see?” Túrin would ask, and Beleg would reply, “The places where lines will be,” and then he would kiss them. 

More fool him, Túrin thought, for never was he fated to see this face grow old, and then he refilled his own wineglass, aware of the possibility that drink made him maudlin, as well.

“Less maudlin than grim,” said Orodreth, who was sitting opposite him, and whose lightly flushed visage had triggered the thought in Túrin’s mind to begin with. Túrin scowled, still unused to the casual way the King of Nargothrond wandered through people’s thoughts. “Sorry,” said Orodreth, suppressing an elegant burp. “It’s easier when people are drunk. I am nothing compared to my brother. He used to roam cheerfully through your mind without even realizing he was doing so. Bit of a family habit.” He stared moodily into his goblet. “He was always better at being gracious in the aftermath, though.”

“Better at a lot of things, wasn’t he?” said Túrin, who wasn’t feeling inclined to be gracious either.

“Yes,” said Orodreth, and drained his glass. “More fair, more wise, more gracious, more good.”

“Sounds like an annoying creature to have around,” said Túrin. 

“No,” said Orodreth, staring into the middle distance, or the three-quarters distance or perhaps simply at the tapestry on the wall, which was garish and contained a number of swans. “He was a blessing, always.”

Túrin refilled both their goblets, and as Orodreth rambled on about Finrod Felagund, the fairest brother in the land, apparently, Túrin tuned him out and instead focused on his flat, corn-silk hair, and thought about Beleg. 

Once the wine was exhausted, it felt perfectly natural when Orodreth reached out and clumsily palmed him through his trousers, and Túrin kissed his wine-stained lips with a kind of resigned relief. Soon Orodreth’s mouth was too busy to drone on, and Túrin was too busy fisting his hands in pale hair to glare at the garish swan tapestry.

Both of them kept their eyes closed, and neither of them said the right name when they came, and though Orodreth’s cry was far more embarrassing, Túrin didn’t comment on it.

I may love a dead elf, he thought, as his head dropped forward on the table and he slipped into a wine and sex-addled stupor, but at least I don’t orgasm to thoughts of my sibling.


	27. Finrod & Curufin, Terrible Teens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenage Noldor are such rascals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. For the prompt: Finrod and Curufin get into trouble together

Eärwen and Nerdanel were taking longer than they had said, apparently without a mind to how this might affect the sons who’d agreed to accompany them to the market. Curufinwë blew out his breath and resisted the childish temptation to drum his heels impatiently against the bench they were sitting on. He glanced at his companion.

Findaráto was sitting perfectly still on the bench, his hands folded in his lap, not a hair out of place or clothing wrinkle in evidence. Curufinwë was about to curl his lip in annoyance at Findaráto’s enduring ability to be perfect, when he noticed the glazed over look in Findaráto’s eyes.

His cousin was asleep.

Curufinwë smirked and allowed himself to study his cousin in more depth. Findaráto was dressed like a true prince of the Vanyar, his tunic of white silk embroidered with gold, which matched his carefully braided hair, and – Curufinwë made a gagging face. There were _pearls_ in his cousin’s hair.

Findaráto blinked suddenly, and shifted on the bench, wincing slightly as if he might be feeling the same ache in his backside that Curufinwë was experiencing. He caught Curufinwë’s smirk and smiled back at him cheerfully.

“Yes?”

“Your hair ornaments are tacky,” said Curufinwë, “and a bug flew into your mouth while you were sleeping.”

“I’m quite sure it didn’t,” said Findaráto. “And I’ll have you know I gathered these pearls myself.”

“Rooting around elbow deep in mollusks is what you lot do for a good time, is it?”

“Oh, yes, you know us.”

Curufinwë shifted his weight on the uncomfortable bench, and Findaráto did the same.

“Our mothers are taking forever,” Curufinwë growled. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t go into the herb tent with them.”

“Women’s lore,” said Findaráto sagely. “I bet they’re after the…you know, secret herbs.”

“What?” Curufinwë frowned. “What secret herbs?”

“Well, Aunt Lalwen says,” Findaráto glanced around, and lowered his voice. “There are some for, you know, _womanly_ afflictions, and then others for womanly… encouragement.”

“What sort of womanly afflictions?” asked Curufinwë, morbidly curious. All stories involving their youngest and most scandalous aunt were intriguing.

“Lalwen said ‘children’ was the big one.”

“And what do you mean by encouragement?”

Findaráto hesitated. “I’m…not quite sure.”

“My mother makes jokes about needing herbs for masculine  _dis_ couragement,” said Curufinwë absently. “At least, I think she was joking. She was pregnant with the twins at the time.”

“I know there are herbs for… you know, virility and potency as well,” whispered Findaráto, his eyes sparkling.

Curufinwë found himself leaning forward, and was a little disgusted with how obviously curious he was. “Is that so?” he asked, trying for a purely businesslike tone. Something he’d heard Tyelkormo talking about to Maitimo flashed through his mind. “You mean, things that might be taken recreationally, rather than medicinally?”

“Possibly.”

Findaráto and Curufinwë stared down the road to where the herbalist’s tent stood, tantalizingly non-descript.

Findaráto chewed his lip. “We could always,” he started, and then cut himself off. “No.”

“What?”

“It’s just that my…low back is getting sore from all the sitting,” said Findaráto. “I was wondering if the herbalist might have some remedies for muscle ache.” He gazed at the sky. “But there would be no need to disturb our mothers’ shopping.”

“We wouldn’t, if we snuck in through the back.”

Findaráto glanced sideways at him through lowered lashes. “I thought the proud sons of Fëanáro never snuck anywhere.”

“Hah. You’ve never seen my oldest brother lurking around the house of Nolofinwë, then.”

“I’ve never visited the herbalist before,” said Findaráto. “I would probably have to rifle through a number of bins before I found the right remedies.”

“I could help,” said Curufinwë. “I am quite observant, and a quick reader.”

“We’d want to keep an ear out, too.”

“For our mothers.”

“And what they might be discussing.”

“And what the herbalist might be saying.”

“About certain remedies, right.”

“We’d definitely pay close attention.”

“Taking care not to interrupt, of course.”

“Of course.”

They looked at each other.

Then Findaráto said, “But I know you don’t like breaking rules. Or lurking, or sneaking. We don’t have to – ”

“Who says?” Curufinwë jumped up, and grabbed Findaráto’s hand to tug him off the bench without really realizing what he was doing. “Let’s go, mollusk head. If we don’t hurry, they might have already left.”


End file.
